


Beyond my years

by Tashilover



Series: Forward, back, and between [1]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've never met you before in my life."</p>
<p>"No, not yet. Not for another fifteen years."</p>
<p>A time travel fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Beyond my years (Chinese Version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000071) by [Christardis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christardis/pseuds/Christardis)



> Warning: Death of a child.

The handwriting, Thursday mused, looked almost childish. Every letter was deliberate, every cursive word thought out meticulously. The writing wasn't smooth or quick. This was clearly done with a focused effort to make their writing legible. The writer must have a constant cramp in his hand.

Amusement aside, this letter was no joke.

_Sergeant Thursday_ , it began. _I know who killed Wendy Carlisle._

From there, the letter included dates, names, newspapers clippings, a few crude drawings, all explaining who the killer was and why. The murder, that took the past month for Thursday to investigate, was solved in a letter only three pages long.

At the bottom of the page, it was dated and signed.

Morse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspector Wash jerked up from his meal when the letter was slapped down in front of him. He had a sausage slice halfway up to his mouth. A droplet of juice dribbled out of the slice and it fell upon the napkin he tucked into his front collar. "Oh my god," he said, putting down his fork. He wiped at his mouth hastily and picked up the letter. "Did he...?"

"He did," Thursday said. He pulled out a chair and sat down. "He solved the Carlise murder."

Wash scanned through the letter. "Holy... he didn't even have half of the information we did. This... this has to be somebody from the inside."

"That's what I'm thinking. But the handwriting doesn't match anybody from this precinct."

"He could be faking his writing. I know sometimes my boy tries to fake his teacher's notes. But who knows."

"Wouldn't it be easier to use a typewriter?"

"There's a chance we could recognize the specific pattern of the typewriter. Like the one in room B? With the little ink blot on every corner? Maybe he can't afford it."

"Hmmm..."

"In any case," Wash continued, picking up his fork and getting back to his lunch. "Are you going to arrest the brother now?"

"Yes, as soon as I am done here."

"Any clues why this Morse figure keeps sending _you_ the letters?"

Thursday had several theories, but unfortunately none of them had enough evidence to back them. "No, sir."

"I don't like vigilantes," Wash grumbled. "Grab your uniforms and go arrest Mr. Carlise. Once you're done, I want to get to the bottom of these letters. I don't want civilians doing our jobs for us."

 

 

 

 

 

 

In all, there were seven letters. All written with the same brand of paper, the same pen, and all had the same penmanship. All were signed with the name, Morse. Most likely a code name.

Thursday marvelled at the letters pinned up on the board. Not all of the letters solved the case. The first three pointed out valuable information they had overlooked during the investigation.

When the first one came in, they all had a good laugh about it. During his days as a constable, Thursday has done his share of going through anonymous tips, weeding out the plausible ones from the whack-jobs who only wanted attention. He read Morse's letter with amusement, then tossed it into a trash bin, intending to forget about it.

An hour later, he found himself still thinking about what was written. Sure, it sounded farfetched and overly complicated, and yet the situation the letter described was _doable_. All Thursday needed to do to confirm it was a single phone call.

It was confirmed. Thursday took the letter to Inspector Wash, and less than an hour later, they were arresting a man who killed three people.

Everyone at the precinct considered it an act of good luck, that some random citizen managed to point out something they didn't see. They all patted themselves on the back for a job well done, and when they all went out to have drinks, they gave a little nod to Morse, whomever he may be.

Less than a month later, they got another letter.

Two months later, another letter.

A week later, two more letters for two different murders.

Of course no one thought their mystery detective would actually use his real name, but they investigated everyone in town with the name, 'Morse' just in case. They even investigated those with different variation of the name, like Morsette and Moristein. Nothing has bore fruit.

At the moment all seven letters were tapped onto a chalkboard for everyone to see. They each had a time stamp, as well as several news articles their mysterious Morse may have found his information from.

On an empty space of the chalkboard, Thursday wrote down Morse's name, underlined it and said, "Alright, so what do we know of this Morse character?"

"He's educated," Wash said immediately. "Perhaps university educated."

At this point everything was still a theory. Thursday wrote _university education_ with a question mark next to it.

"He's young," one detective constable said. "His handwriting is unrefined. Unpracticed."

_In his twenties?_ Was written on the board.

"Are we sure he's that young?" Another detective said. "This guy quoted Machiavelli in one of his letters. Maybe his handwriting is just terrible."

Thursday added in parentheses, _(older than we thought?)_

"He's more than just book smart," Wash said. "He used police terminology in these letters. Maybe he's a retired policeman. Maybe a family member works with the police."

_Connection to the police?_

Thursday stepped back, waiting for someone else to provide something. When no one spoke, he peered back, eyebrows raised, a little surprised all of them ran out of ideas so quickly.

A uniform raised his hand. "Has he done this before?"

Thursday gestured towards the earlier letters, and the uniform shook his head and said, "No, sir, that's not what I meant. Do we know if he's sent letters to other officers before? In other stations?"

Now that was something to think about.

Everyone always started out small before moving up to bigger and better things. Maybe this Morse wasn't writing specifically to Thursday because there was a connection, maybe Thursday was merely the next step in Morse's vigilantism.

"Good job," Thursday said, writing the theory down. The uniform beamed with pride. "I think we just found our next step in the investigation."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Letters from someone named Morse? Um, yes, actually... a couple months ago."

Thursday cradled the phone closer to his ear. He sat up straighter in his chair in anticipation, wincing lightly from the soreness of his back. For the last two hours he has been calling stations up from all around the counties, hoping to prove the theory true. It was a slow, boring method, and a few minutes ago Thursday was about to call it quits.

He double-checked his list. This station was located in Carshall Newtown. Small place, low population. "Did you keep them?"

"Oh, gosh, not really. I mean, the only reason I remembered was because it was such an odd name."

"Do you know what the letters said?"

"Er... we had a few break-ins, and this Morse fellow suggested it was the milk man rather than a bunch of teenagers like we initially thought."

So the theory was right: Morse did start out small. Instead of going after murderers, he went after petty theft. "Did you follow through? Were the letters right?"

"No. We were told to toss 'em."

" _What?_ Why?"

"Taking an anonymous tip is one thing. Taking one from a pseudonym is another. It suggests someone is trying to stake a claim here. Like a calling card."

Interesting idea, but Thursday maintained the fact Morse signed his letters because he wanted to be separated from other anonymous tips.

Thursday thanked the officer for his time and hanged up. It looked like they were going to Carshall Newtown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Constance Morse," Thursday said out loud, reading from the file they had pulled. In all, there were four people with the last name _Morse_ registered at the town hall. One had died the previous month, and another was seventy years old, and blind. As for the other two... "You think she may be our mystery letter writer?"

"Maybe," said Wash, pulling into the neighbourhood. "She's divorced, her ex-husband lives on the other side of the country. She has one son who lives with her. A..." Wash awkwardly leaned to the side to pull out a different file from his briefcase, handing it over to Thursday. "Endeavour Morse. Seesh, what a name."

Inside the file was a single school photo of the boy. He had curly hair and big eyes. He wasn't smiling in the photo. He was staring at the camera like he didn't know it was there until the light went off. Cute kid. Thursday smirked. "Do you think he may be our letter writer?"

"The kid? He's eleven."

"Stranger things have happened. In any case, 'Morse' could still be a pseudonym or a made-up name. Morse Code. Not the worst code name I've heard. Oh, up here. I think this is it."

They pulled over to a very small, very old house. It was well kept, judging from the various repairs over the roof and fence. It had a quaint quality to it and as Thursday got out of the car, he took a moment to look at it and appreciate the history. "I wonder what we'll find-"

He stopped in mid-sentence. To his right, he caught sight of a boy coming up the padded path.

He was short, thin kid, with red hair and bright, big blue eyes. He wore a shirt that was clearly too big for him, and a pair of trousers that were worn around the knees. In his arms he was carrying a large paper bag. At the sight of the adults, he halted in mid-step, his eyes growing wide.

Thursday immediately recognized him from the photo, and just as he was about to say hello, the boy whispered,

" _Inspector Thursday..."_

"Wait, what?" Said Wash, barely catching the words. "What did he just say?"

It wasn't what the boy said, it was how he said it. His words were filled with familiarity. The boy caught his mistake, and he dropped his bag to slap a hand over his mouth. The paper bag split when it struck the ground, the contents scattering.

Those eyes, though. Those giant eyes were not of an innocent child, but someone who was experienced in the harsh realities of life.

"It's the boy," Thursday confirmed, taking a step forward. "Endeavour Morse? Can we speak to you for a moment-"

The boy took off.

With a curse, Thursday took off after him.

The kid was fast, immensely so. Without taking a pause, Morse leapt over a broken fence that separated the street from an open, overgrown field, and kept going.

"Endeavour!" Thursday cried out after him, leaping over the same fence with not the same grace the boy had. " _Morse-!_ Wait, please, we just want to talk!"

He didn't know, nor cared if Inspector Wash was following behind. Most likely not, the man had a bum knee and it was what kept him from entering the war. Thursday's full attention was on Endeavour, who was like a goddamn mouse evading a cat. Endeavour zipped through the field like it was nothing.

But in the end he was still just a little boy with a little boy's stamina. He slowed, his strides becoming shorter. He then stopped altogether, doubling over, gasping for air.

Thank goodness. Thursday only had a couple more seconds in him before he too felt the urge to fall to the ground, panting. He walked up to Morse, holding up his hands to show he meant no harm, though he was ready to grab the boy if he took off again. "I'm not going to hurt you," Thursday gasped, trying to keep his breathing under control.

"I-I know..." said Morse. He held the back of his hand to his mouth, still doubled over. "I know."

"Good. Ah..." He knew? Exactly what did this boy know? "You've been sending me the letters."

"Yes."

"Alright... I-" He was still breathing hard from the exertion. "Truth be told, I was expecting an adult. We were coming, unsure if to give you a warning or to arrest you. We thought it might be your mother-"

"She has nothing to do with this," Morse said. He finally caught his breath and stood up straight. Thursday was afraid he would start running now that he got his second wind, but he stayed. "She doesn't know what I've been doing."

"Then where have you been getting the money for the stamps and paper?"

"I do odd-jobs here and there."

Thursday was surprised Morse was just telling him of all this. No hesitation, no hints of lying. It was as if Morse already knew Thursday was going to help him, to keep his secrets, to help him. That sort of trust was scary.

"Why me?" Thursday asked. "Why do you keep writing to me and not Inspector Wash?"

The boy barely reached up to Thursday's chest in height. He was thin, a little too much for a child his age. And yet, no matter how long Thursday stared at him, Morse did not look like an eleven year old.

"Because," said Morse in a terrifying mature voice. "I know you. You are my friend."

"I have never met you before in my life."

"No, not yet. Not for another fifteen years."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Win was going to kill him. These were new trousers and already Thursday had stained them beyond saving. Mud was splattered around the bottom off the cuffs, grass stains were on his knees (how, he didn't know) and a few prickly thorns had dug themselves into the fabric, ripping it.

The boy, Morse, had similar stains and rips on his clothes, but he was a little boy. It was expected. He was also scowling so deeply he looked like an old man.

"I am telling the truth," he hissed.

Thursday only made a thoughtful noise. He kept one hand lightly on Morse's shoulder, steering him back to the house. Inspector Wash was waiting for them by the car, smoking a cigarette. When he saw them approaching, he tossed down the cig in irritation.

"So," he said as they climbed over the broken fence. "This is our letter writer?"

Morse said nothing.

"Nobody's home," Wash said, nodding his head towards the house. "Where's your mum, kid?"

When Morse refused to talk, Thursday nudged him gently with his elbow. "Work," Morse said with a scowl.

"Do you have a phone number we can call her at?"

"We don't have a phone."

"Then I guess we have to wait here until she comes home. I wonder how upset she'll be when she sees two police officers here because of her son?"

Two angry red splotches appeared on the boy's cheeks.

"Unless..." Wash grunted, kneeling down to come to face level with Morse. "You can answer our questions here and now."

"Sir," Thursday began, stepping forward. As eager as Thursday was in wanting to get information, questioning the boy without his guardian present was against the rules.

Wash held up a hand to silence him. "Well, Endeavour? How 'bout it?"

Morse cocked his head. "Piss off."

" _Excuse me?"_

"You heard me. You know as well as I asking questions without a parent present is against regulations. Isn't it insulting that your subordinate here," he said, jerking a thumb to Thursday. "Knows the rules better than you? How lazy can you be at your job?"

"You listen here, you little brat-"

"No, I've heard enough," Morse said. He bent down to grab the items he let loose earlier. All he had in his bag were a few potatoes, carrots and green beans. "I'm going inside. You're more than welcome to wait till my mother comes home."

Thursday had to hide his grin behind his hand. He didn't need to, Wash was too busy gaping at Morse as the boy walked up the steps to his small house.

"Well, that was an adventure," Thursday said as soon as the front door closed. "Should we wait for the mother or track her down at her job?"

Wash considered this for a few seconds, tapping his finger against the roof of the car. "You stay here," he said. "Watch the kid, make sure he doesn't leave. I'll go seek out the mother."

"So I'll just stand here like a stalker?"

"That's the plan. I'll try not to be long."

With that, Wash climbed back into the car and drove away. Thursday waited till the car disappeared down the road, waited for another full five minutes to be sure Wash was not going to turn back around for something he may have forgotten. Once sure, Thursday started walking up the pathway to Morse's house.

The door opened before he even got to it. "Where is he going?" Morse asked, peeking out.

"To speak to your mum," Thursday said. "Are you going to let me in?"

Morse bit his lip, then silently stepped aside, opening the door more to allow him in.

"Thank you," said Thursday, taking off his hat.

Morse closed the door behind him, locking it. "Follow me," he said.

"Where are we going?"

"To the basement," said Morse, going to the stairs. "It's where I keep my things hidden from my mother."

"She doesn't go into the basement?"

"She doesn't like rats."

Such a trusting young man. While Thursday was not buying into the idea Morse was from the future, he was not going to turn down the opportunity he had here to find out how this eleven year old kid was figuring out crimes from two counties over. Either this kid had an accomplice on the force or he was a goddamn genius.

Morse led him down the dark stairs, their only light source was the one on their backs. Once at the bottom, Morse pulled out a chair that sat next to the stairs, stood up on it and reached up for the string hanging down from the ceiling.

CLICK.

A single lightbulb turned on, barely lighting the room with its dull, yellow light.

The basement was small. Most of it contained broken, ugly furniture pushed up to one side. There was a single desk against the wall, and on it had several newspaper clippings, library books and piles of unknown pieces of paper.

"This is how you do it?" Thursday said in quiet awe as he stepped forward. He studied the clippings on the wall, and realized by simply filling in the gaps with a few stretches of information, many of the crimes were quite obvious.

"Of course," the boy said, huffing. "I told you, I'm not an eleven year old. I'm twenty-seven."

Thursday raised an eyebrow at him. "Sorry, I still don't believe you're from the future. You're highly intelligent, I'll give you that."

"You have a daughter. Her name is Joan."

"Anyone can find that out."

"Your son's name is Sam."

"I don't have a son."

Morse bit his lip on that, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I don't have time for this," he said, shaking his head. He turned to his work desk, shoved aside a few pieces of paper, grabbed an opened notebook and shoved it into Thursday's hands. "Keep this on you."

The notebook had Morse's tiny, child scrawl. It read:

Tony Greenberg. Brown hair, brown eyes. Age 9. Last seen walking from school at 2:15. Goes missing two days. Body is found approximately around 4:14 in the afternoon in Dayfield Forest. Throat slashed.

Thursday grew cold. "What is this?"

"It hasn't happened yet," Morse said quickly. "Not for another month."

"Morse, I don't-"

"This will become one of the biggest cases in Oxford's history, and it will remain unsolved! I know because I read the old files! I am giving you the information now to prevent this, to catch the man before he kills Tony Greenberg!"

Thursday slapped the notebook shut. With a deliberate calm, he placed it down upon the desk, pushing it away from himself.

"I think..." he breathed. The image of a dead child kept flashing in his mind. "I think I'm going to wait outside till your mum gets home."

Morse's eyes grew wide. "If I could remember more, I would probably solve this myself! I read these files _months_ before I traveled back, so certain details are lost to me. Sir, you are the only one who can stop this!"

"C'mon," Thursday said, putting his hand on Morse's shoulder, trying to steer him up the stairs. "Enough of this."

"Mickey Carter was the name of your partner before he was killed!"

Thursday snatched his hand away as if burnt. " _What did you say?"_

He said it low and dangerously. It wasn't a tone that should be used on an eleven year old kid, but Thursday was taken by surprise. Carter only died a little over a year back, and the grieving wounds on Thursday's heart were still bleeding fresh.

Morse flinched, clearly understanding he stepped over a line. With a guilty hunch of his shoulders, he continued, "I know how Carter died and I know you were unable to prosecute his murderer for it. I know about Gunner Mills. I know Win makes you sandwiches for every day of the week except the weekends. Today, it should be ham and tomato. I know... I know about Luisa! She's married now, her last name is Armstrong-"

"Stop it," Thursday hissed. "I won't listen to anymore."

"On March 15th, Tony Greenberg is going to disappear!" Morse roared, his tiny pubescent voice cracking from the effort. "You have to stop the killer! Only you can stop him because I know only you will believe me!"

Thursday has never raised hand to child before, but he wanted to in that moment. "Who told you this?"

"You did! How else would I know about any of this?"

"We're going to wait outside for your mother. Let's go."

"Sir-!"

" _Enough!"_ Thursday bellowed. In the basement his voice echoed out, much louder than he intended. Morse flinched back, his hands moving up to ears to cover them.

"Enough," he said again, softer this time but no less angry. "You're an intelligent young boy, I'll give you that, but I wasn't born yesterday. Time travel isn't real, and though I don't know how you came to learn so much about me, I don't care. This facade stops now before someone gets hurt. When your mother comes home, I am telling her everything."

Two angry splotches of red dotted Morse's cheeks. He blinked, looking as if he might cry, but kept it in. Instead, he simply stared at Thursday with an extremely disappointed glare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday wasn't sure what he was expecting in a mother who named her son Endeavour. She was a short, thin, brittle-looking woman. Unlike her son who had bright, thick red hair, hers was dull in colour and short. Combined with her pale skin, she appeared sickly and weak.

There was nothing sickly in her voice as she chastised her son, gasping as Wash told her of the letters and detailed notes of the murders. Just to prove she was indeed upset and disapproved of her son's actions, she stepped aside and told Inspector Wash they were allowed to go into her basement and take everything Morse had collected. She even handed them an old pillow case to throw it all in.

Morse immediately protested, trying one last time to appeal to Thursday, but Thursday wouldn't have it. He and Wash went into that basement and tore down everything from the wall. They weren't gentle about it either. Newspaper clippings were ripped in half, notes were shuffled together without a second look, and the notebook Morse had tried to shove onto Thursday was tossed into the pillow case without a second look.

When they came back up, Morse refused to look at him.

They thanked Constance one last time, reminded her to be more vigilant of her son's activities, then left the small home.

"That boy is going to be trouble," Wash said as soon as they got back into the car. "Trying to solve murders at his age? Who does he think he is?"

Thursday grunted. "He solved murders and thefts no one else could. And he did it without help. Maybe we shouldn't chastise him, we should probably train him."

"He's eleven. The only thing he should look forward to is puberty."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You're thinking of that boy again," Win said one day two weeks later.

"No, I'm not," Thursday mumbled around his pipe. His eyes were on Joan who was busy chasing around the hedgehogs in the garden. She squealed every time she tried to touch one, giggling when they turned around to hiss at her.

"I know that look, Fred Thursday," Win said. "What is it about this boy that's got you bothered so much?"

"He's... special."

"Special, how?"

"He's intelligent. Extremely intelligent. He... god, Win, the things he knows. He's only eleven and I felt like a moron around him. He... I don't know."

Thursday didn't mention the time travel bit. He didn't want to come off sounding like he was actually feeding into the idea Morse was from the future. The boy sounded so convinced that he was, like he would bet his life on it. It was hard to find that level of confidence in full grown men.

It was more than just the time travel and the intelligence. It was those eyes. Those were the eyes of an old soul, of someone who experienced pain and suffering. Thursday didn't believe there was violence in the home, he saw no evidence, but there was something there.

Win gently took Thursday's hand. She kissed it. "I have news."

Thursday turned his attention away from Joan to Win, raising an eyebrow in question. "Oh?"

She smiled shyly. "I'm pregnant."

All thoughts of Morse was suddenly chased away. His heart fluttered as a slow grin spread across his face. "Really?"

She nodded. "I found out yesterday."

"Oh, Winny!" He kissed her clumsily, unable to purse his lips from smiling too much. It didn't matter, Win was giggling girlishly as he guided Thursday's hand to her stomach.

"I hope it's a boy," she cooed. "A little baby brother for Joan. We'll name him Sam, after your grandfather."

Thursday abruptly pulled back. He swallowed.

"Fred...? What's wrong?"

"I... ah, nothing's wrong. I just... when we thought Joan was going to be a boy, didn't we agree to name him after your dad?"

"I've thought about it. But now I think there are too many Geralds in the world. I like Sam better."

_Your son's name is Sam._

"Alright," Thursday said, pushing Morse's voice away. "Sam, then."

 

 

 

 

 

 

He found her. All it took was a few phone calls but he found her.

Luisa Armstrong.

Thursday sat at his desk, staring down at the file given to him, his eyes unable to move from the picture attached to the heading. She was older, but no less beautiful. She now worked in a clothing store, selling women's delicates and various gift items. For fuck's sake, Thursday had _shopped_ there once before for Win's birthday. All this time she'd only been a measly fifteen minute drive away...

Next to her file was her husband's folder. He was older than her, plump and balding, and frankly a bit ugly if Thursday had anything to say of him.

Attached to both files were their home phone number.

It took everything Thursday had to close the folders and push them away, his hands trembling as he did so. No matter how much he wanted to see her again, he had no right to interfere with their lives. It's been too long and clearly they were different people now.

All around him was the usual hustle and noise of the precinct. Now wasn't the time to cry over lost loves, not when there was work to do and he was in full view of everyone. Besides, there was a bigger issue at hand.

Morse was right.

There was no way he could've known about Luisa. Maybe, maybe there was a chance he came across her-

Ahhhhh, but Morse's mother was barely scraping by, she wouldn't buy such expensive items, especially not take an hour drive to get them. Even if Morse did meet Luisa, she wouldn't share such a history in public where it could be overheard, let alone with a little boy. Thursday could barely share it with Win.

Oh god, what did it all mean? Was Morse really from the future? If he was right about Luisa, about Sam, then he was right about-

" _Shit,"_ Thursday hissed. He fumbled for his keys and then leaned down to the lock drawer of his desk. The pillow sack of papers they took from Morse was never considered evidence and Wash had suggested throwing it away. Thursday kept it, for reasons unknown to himself, and now he was glad he did. Once the drawer was opened, he hauled the sack up and starting frantically looking through it.

The notebook... where was the notebook...

He found it and flipped it open.

Tony Greenberg. Age 9. Disappears on March 15th.

Today was March 12th.

Oh god, oh fuck, this was only three days away. Thursday could've easily missed it, forgotten about- hell, he did forget about it, forced himself not to think of it because that would mean that child will one day grow up to be Thursday's most trusted officer-

"Sir?"

Thursday jerked out of his thoughts, dropping the notebook on his desk with a clatter. "Yes, what is it?" He asked, gulping and hoping he didn't sound too panicked.

"You have a phone call," said the uniform.

"At the front desk. Someone at Carshall Newtown is asking for you specifically."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morse had run away.

He'd left a note explaining there was something 'he needed to do.' He then stole some money from his mother's purse and the last people saw of him was getting on a bus, going to the train station.

The workers at the station did remember a little red headed boy, and when asked where his parents were, he apparently pointed to two random people. They don't remember if he bought a ticket or not or if he hinted of his destination.

Thursday assured the officer he had no idea where this boy could be, and if he heard something, he would give them a call. Once he hung up, Thursday went back to his desk to find out where Tony Greenberg lived.

Forty-five minutes later, Thursday was driving around Tony's neighbourhood. He passed a small park and sitting there on a bench, eating a sandwich, was Morse.

Thursday saw red. He twisted the wheel hard, the tyres squealing loudly as the car swerved over a kurb, and parked illegally next to a fire hydrant. He practically kicked the car door open, hauled himself out, and then slammed it shut.

The boy had turned his head to the sound of the erratic turn, and hunched in guilt. He made no effort to run, not even as he watched Thursday angrily make his way towards him. All Morse did in anticipation of his arrival was placing aside the sandwich on the bench.

Thursday stepped in front of him, curses and harsh words on his tongue, begging to be said.

With a huff, he took sat next to Morse, the sandwich being the only thing that separated them, and stared angrily in the direction of Tony Greenberg's house.

"Exactly what the _hell_ did you think you were going to do?" Thursday practically snarled. "Catch the killer all by yourself?"

Morse calmly said, "So you believe me."

"Answer my question, Morse."

The boy huffed. "Of course not. I was thinking... maybe someone is watching their house. The files suggested the killer had been watching Tony for a while. Knew his schedule from school. Knew his parents work schedule. I'm looking for someone suspicious, maybe a neighbour with too much interest in the family-"

"And then what? Sit out here for the next three days on an off-chance someone could be watching them? It's more likely the killer will be interested in you- a small little boy with no parents in sight, homeless, and who likes to play policeman."

Morse scowled but did not deny it.

Thursday shook his head in disgust. "You did this all the wrong ways."

"It was more than what you're doing," Morse snapped at him. "Why are you here? I thought you didn't believe me."

"I..." He considered telling Morse about Luisa. He didn't want to. "Win is pregnant."

"With Sam."

"With Sam," Thursday confirmed.

"He wants to join the army," Morse said. "But you would rather have him go to university first. You asked me if I could write a recommendation letter for him."

"God!" Thursday hissed, running a hand through his hair. "I have seen so many things, Morse, so many strange, unexplained things, but... _time travel_? How? Just... how?"

"I don't know how. I woke up one day like this. I tried to do research, but the only book in my local library that talks actively of time travel is the novel written by H. G. Wells."

"How long have you been like this?"

"Nearly a year."

"A year! Why... Does anybody else know about this?"

Morse shook his head. "Why not?" Thursday asked.

The boy said nothing.

"Alright, fine," Thursday nearly snapped at him. This cryptic bullshit was wearing on his nerves. "You do realize I have to bring you back to your mother."

As the boy began to protest, Thursday spoke over him and said, "You ran away from home. Your mother called the police, who then called me. You may be a full grown man, Morse, but right now, you're still just a little boy and I will treat you the same way like any other lost child. Now, come on. Let's get to the car."

"What about Tony-"

"I will do something about it, I promise. If I can't, then... I'll watch the house myself if I have to. Now..." He stood up and gestured to the car.

With a bit of a scowl Morse slid off the bench. He took an aborted step forward, then turned back to grab the sandwich he left behind. He picked it up, noticed a splot of pigeon crap had smeared on the bottom of it, made a noise of disgust and dropped it.

Thursday raised an eyebrow. "Are you hungry?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ah, Fred, what are you doing here in the middle of the day?"

Thursday directed Win's gaze down the hall to where Morse stood by the door, shifting uncomfortably. Before she could ask, Thursday whispered to her, "This is Endeavour. Can you watch him for an hour as I run back to the station? I need to contact his mother."

Win blinked. "Isn't he the...?"

He gave her a quick, curt nod, cutting off the other half of her question.

"Oh Fred," she said.

He gave her a small peck on her cheek. "He's also hungry," he muttered before pulling away. If Morse's giant blue eyes didn't get to her, knowing he was hungry easily triggered her motherly instincts.

"Be nice to Joan," Thursday said to Morse as he passed him. "I'll be back."

Thursday seriously doubted he could convince Wash to provide men to keep an eye on Tony Greenberg's house. If Thursday dared mentioned Morse, any hope of cooperation could be thrown out the window.

He needed to call Morse's mother, assure her her son was alive and well. The boy was not going to go quietly but Thursday really had no choice in the matter. Taking him to Thursday's household instead of the police station was already crossing a few lines.

Thursday parked in his usual spot, thinking numbly of the things he needed to do when Wash suddenly came out of the station, yelling for him. "Thursday! Where the fuck were you?"

Surprised, Thursday feared Wash already knew about Morse. "Sir, I-"

"Shut up and get back into the car. We got a call. A child's body was found. Witnesses said his throat was slashed."


	2. Chapter 2

It was ten at night by the time Thursday got home. His back was aching, his shoes were covered in mud and the night was still not done. At the sound of the door opening, Win quietly came down the stairs to greet him.

"Fred!" She whispered. "You should have called!"

"I know," he said. Tiredly he pulled off his hat and coat, wishing to do nothing more than take a warm bath to soothe out his muscles. He had things to do first. "Where's Mo- Endeavour?"

"I set up the sofa for him. I offered him Joan's bed and she could sleep in ours, but he insisted on the sofa. You're right, Fred. He is smart. And so sweet! Bit shy, though, but Joan absolutely loved him."

The horror of it all. Thursday immediately conjured the image of Win asking Morse _cute_ little questions like, 'do you enjoy school?' and 'what's your favourite colour?' Morse would then in turn answer like an eleven year old would, which was probably embarrassing enough as is. Did Joan drag the boy upstairs to her room to show off her toys? Did she force him to play tea parties? Good lord, Thursday owed him a drink.

When he was old enough to drink, that is.

"I'm glad to hear that," Thursday whispered, kissing Win gently on the cheek. "Go upstairs, I'll join you in a minute."

He waited till she up the stairs and shuffling towards their room. When he gently heard the sound of their bedroom door closing, Thursday went to the living room. He didn't want to wake the boy; he knew how cranky Joan got when she was awoken prematurely, but he needed to talk to him. Thursday quietly opened the door to the living room, wondering if waking a twenty-seven year old like a child would be as condescending as he thought.

The side lamp was already on and Morse was sitting on the sofa, blankets and pillows pushed aside, waiting for him. His hair was lightly mussed, proving he was asleep or at least lying down before Thursday entered. "You were gone for _hours_ ," Morse said. His tiny pubescent eyebrows pushed together in worry. "What happened?"

"Tony Greenberg is dead," Thursday said. "They found his body a few blocks from his house. His throat had been cut."

Morse's mouth dropped. "No... that's impossible. The murder doesn't happen for another three days-! He... we were there!"

"I know."

"We were _right there!_ I saw Tony in his room through the window! Oh no... no, this is my fault."

"No," Thursday said. "This is not anybody's fault."

"I must have altered the time somehow," Morse kept talking. He was slowly beginning to panic. "Sped up the process, spooked the murderer by sitting out on that bench-"

" _That's enough,_ " Thursday whispered harshly, taking a seat down next to the boy. He grasped Morse's chin, forcing him to look up.

Thursday was vaguely aware he shouldn't treat a twenty-seven year old like this. 

"This is not your fault," he said quickly, taking his hand away. "Tony did not die because of you, he died because _someone else_ killed him. Blaming yourself is not going to help, alright?"

When Morse didn't answer, Thursday asked again. He emphasized the word to show he expected a response. " _Alright?"_

"Yes," Morse said, swallowing. "Yes, alright. Is there anything I can do?"

It felt wrong to be asking this of a child. "This is what we know so far," Thursday said. "We know Tony must've been abducted immediately after we left, so we know the time of that: 4:15. Tony's mother said someone rung the doorbell and thinking it was the mailman, Tony went to answer it, and I'm assuming that's when he was grabbed."

Morse made a face. "What kind of killer rings the doorbell?"

"We're thinking he was a solicitor, going door to door selling his goods. Tony opened the door and in that moment, the killer made a decision. Unfortunately we checked with the other neighbours, and none of them had been bothered. How much did you read up on the investigation? Were there other suspects, other clues?"

"Not much," Morse admitted bitterly. "I didn't spend much time looking over the files. Bright doesn't like it when I overstep my boundaries."

"Who?"

"He... ah, that doesn't matter. Point is, the only information I was able to extract from the files was the very basic. At this point, you know as much as I do."

Thursday groaned and leaned back into the sofa, relishing the softness on his back. He wanted to nod off right there. "I've made arrangements for you to be brought back to your mother in the morning."

He waited for the argument.

"I understand," Morse said in a defeated tone, surprising Thursday. "I can't help."

"Sorry."

"God," Morse muttered, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. "I hate this so much. I've literally crossed time and space and I am about as useful as a rock."

"Don't beat yourself up over this. There might be a reason why you're here, we just haven't found it yet. Now, get to sleep. You leave early."

Morse grumbled and settled further onto the sofa, bringing up the blankets over his head. Thursday got up, allowing the boy to stretch out his legs.

"Did you brush your teeth?" Thursday asked without thinking.

Morse pulled down the blanket just enough to give him an unimpressed look. Thursday gave a short, embarrassed shrug, and the blanket was pulled back up again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, Thursday dreamt what it would be like if he were eleven years old again.

For a while, it was wonderful. He got to interact with his parents again who died during the air raids. He was able to speak with his older brother, Bill, who disappeared one day at the tender age of fourteen. Thursday only had a small handful of photographs of his family and was surprised how much he remembered the small details of their faces, like the moles on his mother's chin, or the scar on his father's neck.

But as much as Thursday relished being in their company, he was also aware Win wasn't there. At this time Win was still living with her abusive father, obtaining the scars she'd bear for the rest of her life. Thursday had no idea what her address was, or how to help her.

Joan wasn't there either. His little girl wouldn't be born for another twenty years and thought of waiting that long to see her again hurt more than his parents dying.

As nice as a dream it was, when Thursday woke to use the toilet, he was glad to know it wasn't real.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Morse," Thursday said gently, shaking the blanket lump. "C'mon, it's time to leave."

It was five in the morning and still pitch black outside. By the time Morse got to the train station, the sun would be rising.

The boy stirred sleepily, woke long enough to kick the blanket off of himself. It looked like he was reaching out for something, his head rising as if to see, then laid back down and went back to sleep.

Twenty-seven he may be, but that was still an eleven year old body. With a small sigh, Thursday moved aside the blanket further down the sofa, and as gently as he could, lifted the boy up into his arms. Joan was smaller than Morse, but the soft weight and warmth in Thursday's arms felt no different.

Morse jerked out of his sleep for a second by the sudden movement. "Mhhmmm?"

"Shhh, I got you..." Thursday said, rubbing small circles on the boy's back. That did the trick because Morse settled back down, resting his head against Thursday's shoulder.

Outside, a detective constable waited patiently, keeping the car warm. He perked up seeing the two come out from the house, and quickly scurried over to open the side door. "There's a blanket on the sofa," Thursday whispered, nodding his lightly behind him. "Go get it, please."

While the constable went back inside, Thursday gently settled Morse into the back seat. The jostling woke him just enough for him to position himself more compfortably against the cushions. Once he was done, he was out again.

The constable appeared behind Thursday, silently passing over the blanket. Thursday whispered his thanks and just as he finished tucking it in around Morse, the boy suddenly reached out and grasped Thursday's wrist.

His hand was so small. "Sir," he mumbled groggily, dropping his arm and peering at Thursday through half-raised lids. "What if I'm... not the only one?"

"The only one?"

"Time traveler. What if... _he_ came back too?"

"I don't understand. Why would he come back, only to kill the same child again?"

Thursday waited a second longer, wondering if there was a bigger explanation to be given, but Morse was out again and this time for good. Thursday gently touched the back of his knuckles against Morse's cheek, a habit he often did with Joan to check her temperature, and stepped away.

"Take him all the way," Thursday said to the constable. "Don't let him out of your sight till he's with his mother."

"Yes, sir."

Thursday didn't go back inside till the taillights of the car turned the corner and disappeared from sight.


	3. Chapter 3

How do you go about searching for a time traveling murderer who may or may not have come back in time a year prior? A killer, who's alluded police for fifteen years?

This was all so fuckin' strange. Thursday had no idea where to begin, let alone have the confidence he could find someone like that. Good lord, he should've woken Morse up and picked his brain a few seconds longer before sending him off. It was only a theory the boy thought of in his half-slept state, but it was still better than anything Thursday had.

The Tony Greenberg case was going horribly. No suspects, no clues to go on, no idea what to do next. The neighbours were already questioned twice, Tony's school was shut down in light of his murder, and his mother was hospitalized due to stress.

The only bright moment Thursday had was when he got a phone call from the young DC, confirming Morse was reunited with his mother. "That's good," Thursday said. A small stress ache was beginning to form between his eyes. At least this was one worry he didn't have to think about anymore. "Did the boy say anything before you left him?"

"Yessir, he did. He said... um... 'the very first thing I did when I came back was make amends to those I hurt.'"

Thursday frowned. Was that suppose to be a clue to something or was Morse simply making conversation? Thursday thanked the DC and hanged up, repeating the words over and over in his head.

It had to be a clue. Morse wouldn't say something that vague if not pertaining to something else. Than again, what did Thursday know? He's barely known this boy for more than a few hours, known of his existence for less than a month. Really, Thursday had no idea if he should be putting so much trust in this young person, even if he was from the future. Morse could be giving Thursday a valuable clue or he could be sprouting bullshit.

Thursday groaned at his desk, his elbows sitting upon papers of various fake-tips, shaking his head woefully. Why was he fighting this? He trusted the boy more than Inspector Wash.

Alright then. When Morse came back in time, he didn't try to change the future. Instead, he went to those he felt he hurt or offended and apologized to them. So who's to say their killer didn't do the same?

This was what they theorized of the murderer: Firstly, he was local. He had grabbed Tony and killed him without anyone seeing him, so that meant he knew the streets, the traffic schedule well enough to avoid crowds. Secondly, he was most likely someone the Greenbergs knew. If the killer was a stranger, Tony would have screamed or struggled or not open the door at all. So the killer could be anyone from a close family friend to the family dentist.

Thursday thought to himself, If I traveled back in time, what would be the very first thing I would do?

He made a check list in his head. Speak to his parents. Talk to his brother and try to prevent his disappearance. Go to the pub and try to convince the barkeep to give him a whiskey. He would be dazed and confused, wondering if he was going to wake up from this odd dream.

"Huh," Thursday said. Now that was something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday had a name: Charlie Owens.

Local grocer, owned a small shop only a ten minute walk from the Greenberg's house. He sold very simple packaged items like crackers and canned soups. After a very long talk with the Greenberg family, the nearest pub and the shops next door, they all confirmed about a year ago, Owens had something his friends called, 'an episode'. For three days the man was erratic. Jumpy. He would visibly shake at the sight of certain people, mumbling incoherently.

When he eventually calmed, he was unnaturally quiet.

Thursday wondered if this happened to Morse. Did he rant and rave at the sight of people long dead, having his feelings dismissed simply because he was young or thought to be sick?

When Thursday went to Owens' shop, it was closed. 'Permanently and Forever' said the sign on the front. How fucking convenient. He peered through the darken windows and seeing no one, he thought about breaking in. The lock was flimsy enough to do it, but Thursday was not about to lose a potential child killer due to unlawful breaking and entering. He needed a reason to get in.

Aw, fuck it.

Thursday looked to his left, then to his right, ensuring nobody was watching him. He leaned in close to the door, grabbing the handle and twisting it with brute strength. He slammed his shoulder against the door, breaking the lock, giving him access inside.

Owens' physical residence was on the first floor. If he were home, he should be coming down to investigate the sudden noise. Thursday waited for the sounds of footsteps and none came. He wasn't home.

Thursday swiftly moved past the small aisles of food, going straight to the backroom. He needed to make this quick. If someone saw him, he could feign he was investigating a possible break-in. If he dilly-dallied, he would be the one with suspicion casted upon him.

The back room didn't reveal much. There were log books, ruined pieces of merchandise, open boxes, files and papers. Nothing here appeared of use. Just as he turned, thinking he may have to break into the upstairs living space, something caught his eye.

On Owens' small desk, Thursday had to brush away a pile of receipts to find yesterday's newspaper sitting underneath. It was folded into quarters, leaving only the article on Tony's death in full view. Nothing strange about that, except Owens had cut out the boy's eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It didn't take long for Thursday and Inspector Wash to get a warrant to search the rest of the home. Owens sudden disappearance, the sudden break-in and now the macabre newspaper, was enough circumstantial evidence to get a warrant.

If Tony had been a grown man instead of a child, such tactics wouldn't have worked. The police were under heavy pressure to catch this child killer and were willing to bend a few rules.

Accompanied with Inspector Wash and half a dozen of the precinct's finest, they forced open the door to Owens' home.

The upstairs living space stunk like old pond water. It was like he hadn't opened a window in here for decades. It was a small, decent little hovel, perfect for a single bachelor.

The officers spread out carefully. It only took them five minutes to confirm the home was empty. "It looked like he abandoned the place, sir," one officer said. "None of the clothing looks disturbed, none of the drawers have been opened."

Owens didn't even pack, he only ran. He either predicted the police were coming or something spooked him.

The rest of the rooms were filled with various pieces of junk. Piles of newspapers were nearly in every corner, certain headlines circled in bold black pen with the words scrawled next to it, 'I REMEMBER THIS'.

All Thursday wanted to do was take every scrap of paper outside and burn it. The longer he stayed in this dark, ugly, damp home, the greaser he felt. He wanted to take a bath.

As they moved from the living room and into the hallway, they found dozens of drawings pinned to the wall with a push tack. Detailed, photo-realistic drawings made out of charlcoal and pencil. Owens was an _amazing_ artist. It was a wonder why he was running a small shop instead of selling his art. There were drawings of his customers, of his friends, and unfortunately, many of them children. It didn't take Thursday long to find Tony's picture on the wall.

"Good lord," Wash breathed in horrific awe. His torch scanned the pages, illuminating their faces. The eyes were so realistic, Thursday swore they followed him as he moved. "How many did he go after?"

There were enough pictures here to fill a sketch book. Were these all children Owens had killed? Planning to kill? Every single picture was going have to be investigated, forcing the precinct to search through _hundreds_ of missing children cases. For all Thursday knew, some of these kids weren't even born yet. These could be Owens' potential victims over the course of the next fifteen years.

There was one drawing that stood out from the rest. Thursday had almost looked over it, thinking it was one of Owens' friends or customer. It was pinned off to the side, obscured by the darkness.

Morse. Owens had drawn Morse.

But it wasn't a picture of the boy Thursday had come to know. In this picture, Morse was a young man in his twenties. His face was longer, sharper, devoid of all baby fat. His chin hinted at a beard, his hair, though combed, curled at the ends. There was no denying who those giant eyes belonged to, though.

Thursday would have enjoyed this. To see the man Morse would become, the man his future counterpart would one day meet. It wasn't everyday someone got the chance to look directly into the future.

 _This_ was why Owens had killed Tony three days earlier. Owens knew of Morse from the sixties and when he saw the boy sitting out at that park bench, he knew immediately Morse had also traveled back in time and-

Thursday's mouth dropped in horror. "He's going after the boy."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have no idea if this is how radios worked back then (if their distance can be reached that far) but for the sake of the story, let's say yes.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, there are past references to Tony Greenberg's murder here.

"Are you taking a piss?" Wash said in utter disbelief. "You want to leave this cache of evidence so you can check up on that _boy?_ "

Thursday held up the drawing. "Look at this, sir. This is him, fifteen years from now. Owens drew him as a man, clearly he has a fixation on Morse!"

"Why the hell would Owens want someone who lives so far away when there are plenty of children here in Oxford to go after? Also, fifteen years? That drawing could be anyone."

"It's Morse. If you study the drawing long enough-"

"There are dozens of drawings here. What makes him so special?"

Thursday steadied himself. He could be sacked over this, he could arrested or fined. He thought about Joan, he thought about Win who was newly pregnant with their son. Thursday didn't earn that much money and if he lost his job, it could be disastrous for his family. Despite that, he had to do this. "Owens has seen the boy... Morse.. he, ah, ran away two days ago and I tracked him to the park right across Tony Greenberg's home."

Wash's eyes flashed dangerously. "You... _what?"_

"I sent Morse home early this morning with DC Reeds. I didn't know he was involved in this until now-"

"You didn't _think_ that this fucking boy, this boy who likes to study violent crimes, wasn't cause enough to tell me?"

"Sir, I-"

"Shut the fuck up, Thursday. I don't want to hear your asinine reasons for keeping this from me. Right now my biggest priority is to catch Owens. Once we have him in custody, _then_ we're going to have discuss why you felt the need to keep such vital information from me."

He stepped away for a moment to collect himself. Thursday's heart was pounding in his chest, worried for his future, worried for Morse. It was out in the open, at least.

"Alright," Wash said, stepping back, calmer this time. "Tell me why. Why would Owens go after Endeavour Morse?"

"Morse is under the delusion he's from the future. That's why he studies crimes, he thinks he can stop them before they start."

Wash stared at him. "You're making this up, aren't you."

"It's the reason why he came to Oxford. I don't know what's the connection between Owens and Morse is, but this drawing," he held it up for emphasis. "Shows Owens believes Morse is from the future. That's why he drew the boy as an adult."

Wash snatched the drawing from Thursday's hand. He studied it, his face scrunching up as he stared. "Uh... I see some simalarities." He said, shrugging. He looked up at the wall covered in portraits. "So all of these drawings could be future interpretations of children?

"Possibly."

"Exactly what we need: for this case to become even more unecessarily complicated. Alright... alright... right now Owens is in the wind and I got nothing better. Kowalski, Daniel," he called over two uniforms. "Get in touch with Carshall Newtown. Give them Charlie Owen's description. And have them send out a patrol to the house of Constance Morse."

Thursday stepped forward. "Sir, I want to go Carshall Newtown."

"The fuck you are. Until we get visual confirmation Owens is, in fact, in Carshall Newtown, you stay put."

Morse didn't have a phone. He had no idea who Charlie Owens was, what he looked like. There was no way Morse could fight off a grown man, no matter how smart he was. Owens could easily walk up to the front door, the same way he did to Tony Greenburg, ring the doorbell and just wait.

Thursday suddenly had the image of Morse opening the door, his giant eyes blinking in the sunlight, wondering who this stranger was. Owens had dragged Tony Greenberg into the nearby woods before killing him. Probably done to cover Tony's screams or trail of blood. There would be no need with such precautions with Morse. His home was in the middle of nowhere, his nearest neighbour three hundred feet away. His only protection was his mother, unless she was working today.

The door would open, and Owens would lash out, cutting Morse down. No witnesses, no evidence to collect. He'd then walk away, leaving the boy to slowly die. By the time help would arrive, it would be too late.

(-Thursday could leave right now. Hop into a car and go. Wash would have him arrested before he walked out the door, but he couldn't just stand here and wait-)

Thursday had no choice. He couldn't help Morse if he got himself arrested. Even if he managed to get away, the drive to Carshall Newtown was still an hour away. The top speed of the car wouldn't get him there fast enough.

Thursday's shoulders slumped in defeat. He's never felt more useless in his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was another thirty-seven agonizing minutes before they got word from Carshall Newtown. Thursday spent that time helping to organize the drawings, directing what needed to be photographed, and looking for any other clues. His heart wasn't in it. He went through the motions the same way a factory worker did in a assembly line. His body moved, but if you asked him a week later what he did exactly, he wouldn't be able to tell you.

He was in the middle of organizing a second shift when Inspector Wash motioned him aside. "We got Carshall Newtown on the radio," he said.

Thursday felt his hope rise. Likely it was the local precinct simply giving an update. Either way, he followed Wash out of Owen's building and to the car where a uniform stood waiting with speaker in hand.

Wash took the speaker. "This is the Oxford Police, Inspector Wash speaking."

A crackling, audible voice came back. _"This is Detective Constable Adams. I have the child, Endeavour, in the backseat."_

The weight of worry suddenly lifted off of Thursday's shoulders, and he nearly stumbled by the relief he felt. Good lord, this kid was going to kill him. All that mattered was Morse was alive, he was safe, and he was in the presence of the police. Good. Good.

"What about the mother?" Wash asked.

_"Another officer is picking her up at her work. She-"_

D.C. Adams went silent.

Wash waited for a few seconds, and when there was no continued response, he said into the speaker, "Come again, you were cut off."

He paused. Still no response. At this, Wash shared a worrying look with Thursday as he tried again, "D.C. Adams, please respond."

The radio crackled loudly. This time, Morse's frenzied voice was coming through.

_"Police officer down! Police officer down! We were struck by another car! D.C Adams is not responding and..."_

Morse stopped in mid-sentence but didn't take his finger off the speaker. Thursday could hear the boy's labored, panicked breathing. It only lasted for a second, and suddenly Morse was back on the speaker, yelling, " _It's Owens!"_

There was a noise in the background, like a car door opening, and everything on Morse's end was cut off again.


	5. Chapter 5

DC Adams had four broken ribs, a broken arm, two broken fingers, a dislocated knee, and the whole right side of his face was wrapped in gauze. It hurt Thursday to look at him, even though it was assured the young man was going to make a full recovery.

"We..." Adams licked his dry lips, desperate to talk. "We were... hit coming out of the boy's neighbourhood. It clocked us, trapping us in. The boy... En... En..."

"Morse," Thursday encouraged. No need to make an injured man try to pronunciate _Endeavour_.

"Morse," Adams breathed out. "He was in the back seat... he crawled forward to get to the radio... I... I don't know what happened next... I was going in and out of consciousness... he was next to me one second... and in the next, he was fighting Owens tooth and nail... Owens... dragged him out... I heard... I heard that boy _scream_..."

Thursday's fists tightened at his side.

"Was Morse alive when Owens left with him?" Wash asked.

Adams shook his head mournfully. "I don't know..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

It started to snow outside. The flakes were small and melted swiftly upon contact with the ground. It would be hours before it stuck and formed.

Wash kept reaching into his coat for cigarettes and getting frustrated when he couldn't manuever his hand into his inner pocket. He kept missing the pocket entirely. He finally pulled out a single cigarette, tried to light it, and suddenly threw it down. "Fuck!" He spat. "Owens killed Tony Greenberg within seconds. Who knows what he'll to Endeavour Morse."

Officially Morse has been missing for nearly six hours. His mother was in the hospital as well, overwhelmed of having her son disappear for the second time in a week. When heard Morse was kidnapped by a serial child killer, she cried out in horror and started to hyperventilate. She calmed long enough to answer a few questions, but she had no idea who Owens was and what he wanted with her son.

Thursday did not blame her. With every second that passed, the heavy stone of fear at the bottom of his stomach grew larger and larger. As far as the Carshall Newtown police could tell them, Owens did not own property or have family here. They placed up roadblocks and checkpoints, and so far nobody with Owens' descriptions has passed by. Unless he found a way around the blocks, there was a very good chance he was still here somewhere.

Thursday was so busy wallowing in his own guilt, he missed Wash's words to him. "Sorry, I missed that."

"I said, go home," Wash repeated. It was not a gentle command of a friend. Wash spat out his words to Thursday. "Your involvement in this case is done."

"Sir-"

"If you bothered following protocol," Wash snapped at him. "And TOLD us about the boy when he first ran away, all of this could've been prevented. We have a child killer who, _according to you_ , believes he's from the fucking future, and we also have a kidnapped a child who, _also according to you_ , thinks _he's_ from the fucking future. This isn't a case anymore, it's a goddamn Orson Wells novel! I am done with this. Go back to Oxford, Thursday. I don't need you here."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Exactly what sort of danger could an eleven year old present?

Even with Morse's help, it still took Thursday nearly twenty-four hours to figure out who Owens was. That gave Owens more than enough time to run, to disappear off the map. With his knowledge of the future, he could hide away and never be seen again. There was no need to go after Morse.

These were the thougths that kept repeating themselves over and over in Thursday's head as he sat in the car, watching the snowflakes land silently on the windshield.

Morse's memory was brilliant but not perfect. It's not as if someone could walk up to him and ask him for the numbers of the lottery or-

Wait, Thursday wondered. He leaned back into his seat, his eyes narrowing. What _if_ Morse did know the numbers to the lottery? Morse never struck Thursday as the type of person who indulged in such things, but surely he was aware of certain major payouts. He could gamble on future boxing matches, rugby games, football games-

Carshall Newtown had a horse track arena.

Thursday revved the engine, shifted the gears into drive and with the tyres squealing, drove right out of the hospital lot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Owens knew who Morse was, enough to recognize him at age eleven, then he knew who Thursday was as well. Thursday was going have to be swift about this. If Owens saw him, believed he too was from the future, then Morse was good as dead.

Carshall Newtown had nothing of value beyond being a resting area between distances. To keep tourism and local businesses going, the track races became the main source of income. With gambling, crimes of prostitution and murder over debt should be plentiful. It made Thursday wonder why Morse bothered to branch out towards Oxford when there was plenty of work here to do.

Then again, Morse was ignored when he sent his letters to his local police. He knew Thursday wouldn't ignore him.

Not then, and certainly not now.

Once at the tracks, it only took a quick flash of Thursday's badge to get him the information he needed. "For today's race, who has placed the biggest bet?"

A whopping five thousand pounds was placed on a horse called, Lucky Eight. The woman at the booth was kind enough to give a general description of the man who placed the bet, then pointed in the direction he went.

It didn't take Thursday long to find Owens. The bastard was too busy smoking a cigar the size of his fist to notice Thursday and a group of security guards coming up behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Where's Morse?"

Owens was sporting a new black eye and he was bleeding heavily from his mouth. Official reports would claim Owens struggled during arrest. It was technically true. "I have no idea what you're talking about, _Inspector_."

Thursday gritted his teeth. Fine, he knew. That didn't matter. "Where is Endeavour Morse?"

The wail of police cars was coming closer. Wash and the others would be here soon and that meant Thursday would have to turn the investigation over to them. If that happens, Thursday loses his chance to interrogate Owens freely. "Is there something you want? Something I can exchange for information?"

The police wails have stopped. They were here, only seconds away.

"It's so strange," Owens said, cocking his head. "I could see the personality changes in people, the way the years have aged them, have haunted them. I used to watch you two in the pub, the way you look at the boy like he were your own. As young as you are now, nothing has changed."

"Where is he-?"

"I have no idea."

In a fit of rage, Thursday grabbed Owens by the lapels of his coat, hauled him up and slammed him into the nearest wall. There were startled protests from the arena's security guards, but none made any effort to stop him.

"I have no idea why you're doing this," Thursday spat, using his height and weight to his advantage. He pressed in further, making Owens hiss in pain. "But it's over. Your crimes, past and future have stopped here. Be a man and give me the boy."

Owens started laughing. Blood dribbled out of his mouth, over his lip as he gasped out, " _Boy?_ Isn't he thirty?"

"Let it end!"

"Hmmm..." Owens closed his eyes and sighed. "I thought he would be like me. Change the world, he could. I offered him that chance. He didn't want it. All he wanted were answers."

Thursday could hear Wash calling his name. He ignored him, waiting, begging with his eyes for Owens to tell him-

"I put him in the boot of the car."

Thursday jerked. "We searched your car, he wasn't-"

"-the car next to me. Left it unlocked, those morons. If you hurry, you can probably catch the owners before they leave-"

There was a deafening roar in Thursday's ears as horror seized in his chest. The snow was still falling and the air got colder in the past few hours. An adult could survive this weather, not a child. Without another word, Thursday tossed Owens aside into the arms of one of the security guards, turned and ran for the car lot.

Wash was yelling at him, telling him to stop, to explain himself. Thursday pushed past him, knocking down a few other officers in his haste. He didn't care if this got him fired or arrested. He hesitated before, he was not going to do it again. He ran out into the open air of the lot. His heart beated heavily in his chest and his breaths came out in white, hurried puffs.

There was one other car still parked next to Owens'. It was a beautiful, shiny dark maroon car, something Thursday could never afford, not even in twenty years. The owners were already climbing in.

"Stop right there!" Thursday yelled at them, startling them. He held up his badge. "Open the boot!"

"What? Why?"

"OPEN IT, NOW!"

The owners scrambled to open the boot.

"Thursday!" Wash came up, grabbing him by his arm. "Have you gone mad? You can't force people-!"

The boot popped open. Thursday shrugged off Wash's hand, rushed forward, elbowed the owner out of the way, threw open the lid-

And there was Morse, curled up into a small ball, shivering. He didn't respond to the sudden light or sounds around him.

"Good lord," Wash gasped. He turned to the others. "CALL AN AMBULANCE, NOW!"

The owners of the car were screaming too, how they had nothing to do with this, how it was all a mistake. Their voices melted to the background as Thursday took off his coat and bent down.

"I got you," he muttered, wrapping the coat around the boy's small frame. He gently picked him up out of the boot, drawing him close to his chest. Morse was like ice under his hands. "I got you."


	6. Chapter 6

Morse looked so small in the hospital bed. He should have been placed in the children's area of the hospital, but due to the severity of the crime he was involved in, he was placed in the standard ward. Thursday considered this to be the better option. He wasn't sure how Morse would feel if he woke up in the children's area, stuck in a room with painted walls of cartoonish, smiling animals and dancing clowns.

Constance Morse only left the room temporarily. She had spent the last twelve hours sitting by her son's side, refusing to leave. Finally a nurse convinced her to get something to eat at the cafeteria and freshen up. Thursday promised to look over Endeavour, and to grab her if he awakened while she was out.

She was only gone for fifteen minutes when Morse started moving on the bed.

At first Thursday did nothing. He waited to see if Morse was simply shifting into a more comfortable position. Except Morse kept moving, struggling to pull himself out of his sleep. Thursday tossed aside the three month old magazine he was reading as Morse's eyes fluttered opened. "Morse?" He said, coming close.

Morse immediately relaxed the moment he saw Thursday. "Sir," he said without thought. He glanced around the room. "Where's my mother?"

"She's getting something to eat, so we have at least a half hour to ourselves. How do you feel?"

"Old," Morse muttered. His voice was sore and he struggled to sit up. Thursday laid a hand on his chest, keeping him still.

"Don't move," Thursday said. "You should probably go back to sleep."

"I've slept enough," Morse said. "Tell me what happened. You got Owens?"

"We did."

"Thank Christ," Morse said, giving up the fight against Thursday's hand and slumping against his pillows. "He wanted to know if I remember a particular race, something he could bet on."

"Did you make something up?"

"No, I..." Morse paused. He swallowed, then said, "I remember this race because my father lost five hundred pounds on the wrong horse. Owens double-checked the names to ensure I wasn't lying."

Morse added on that last fact very quickly, keeping the subject on Owens. He didn't need to do that, it was not as if Thursday was going to ask Morse about his father's obvious gambling problem. "Is that why Owens kidnapped you? For money?"

"He... he wanted a partner. Someone who knew how he felt, who gone through the same... I've been back in time for a year, sir," Morse said. "He's been here for twenty-two."

Thursday's mouth dropped. Good lord, twenty-two years. How could someone comprehend that? To relive WW2 again, the bombings, the immense death and destruction, to have all that knowledge of the future and yet still end up in the same place and area- a fucking _shop keeper_. Was Owens unable to change his future? "I don't understand, he could've gone anywhere, done anything, why-?"

"I asked him that myself," Morse said. "Owens... had a wife. She died in the bombings. When Owens came back, saw his wife again, he thought he was given a miracle, a chance to right wrongs. Instead of the bombings, she died in a car crash."

"Oh..." Well... that was sad, certainly, but Thursday was not in the mood to have sympathy towards a child killer. "Wait, did she die on the same day?"

"Yes. March 13th, the same day Tony Greenberg was originally taken from his home."

Thursday pulled back, feeling cold. "So what is it you're trying to imply? That it was fate or-"

"No," said Morse. "I don't believe in things like destiny or fate. I find it ridiculous."

"Almost as ridiculous as time travel?"

Morse scowled.

Thursday was not going to bother following that line of questioning. It felt too large, too big for them to comprehend. He'd rather stick to the things he knew. "Did you ask why he killed Tony Greenberg? For someone who seemed so devoted to his wife, killing a child is not exactly the next step in the mourning process."

"I did ask," Morse said. "Owens said Tony's death the first time around was an accident."

Thursday blanched. "An accident? His throat was cut! How was that an accident?"

"Before his wife died, they were talking about having kids. Owens had come to know Tony Greenberg when he came into his shop every week. Became familiar with the boy, starting regarding him as... well, not his own son, but felt parental towards him. On the anniversary of his wife's death and feeling lonely, Owens said he came to Tony's home. Convined the boy to come with him, promising sweets and toys..."

He shuddered.

"At some point Tony wanted to leave, go home. Owens said he was lonely, he was desperate, and when Tony started screaming and yelling, Owens panicked and killed him. I asked why he killed Tony the second time around and he said... he didn't see the point in stopping it."

Thursday made a disgusted noise, shaking his head in disbelief. That was considered an accident? One time Joan left one of her toys on the stairs and Thursday twisted his ankle from tripping upon it, _that_ was an accident. Kidnapping a child, forcing him to stay and then cutting his throat to keep him quiet was henious beyond imagination.

"I told him using his wife's death is not an excuse," Morse continued. "He hit me when I called him a fool."

"Did you intentionally _mock_ a serial killer?" Thursday balked at him. "Good lord, is this what I have to look forward to?"

Morse's shoulders hunched guiltily.

Future-Fred Thursday must have the patience of a saint. If this was how Morse worked while in the body of an eleven year old, how was he as a young man? Thursday thought back to Owen's drawing, and to the giant pretty eyes Morse never lost. "I told my inspector about the time traveling."

Morse's mouth dropped, and as he sputtered, Thursday held up a hand and continued. "He didn't believe me, naturally, but as a result of it, we were able to track Owens to you. Unfortunately, due to my keeping secrets, I am now on suspension."

"Suspension?" Morse breathed. He tired to sit up again and Thursday gently pushed him back down. "No-! This isn't how it's suppose to go!"

"I've made my choice, and I'll face the consequences of my actions."

"But you're suspose to become an inspector! If you get suspended..."

Thursday was not going to dwell on that. He had another child on the way and he cannot be bothered with trying to fulfill some future aspect of himself when the present was demanding all of his attention. "I'm not even suppose to be here. Your mother allowed me into the room. She's grateful that I found you. But after I leave, I will have to face the review board and... then I'll go from there."

"I'm so sorry, sir," Morse said, bowing his head. "If I've been less reckless, if... I'm so sorry."

In some ways Thursday did blame him. If Morse had been more patient, less eager to solve the puzzle, he could've informed the police of Tony's demise without revealing himself or putting Thursday's job at risk. But truely, what could Morse have done in his current state? For the past year he was forced to lie to his mother, forced to relive his childhood, forced to accept there were things he could not control, no matter how hard he tried.

Thursday thought about his dream, remembering how he ached for his wife and child. He never asked if Morse was married, if he had kids. It didn't seem like an appropriate time to ask such a question, if ever.

"I have to go," Thursday said, getting up. "I still have reports to finish, and I promised your mother I'll get her once you awakened."

"Will I see you again?"

Thursday wanted to say yes, but knew that wasn't the truth. "I don't know. Owens has already confessed to his crimes, so your testimony may not be needed. As for our... friendship, it still doesn't change the fact I am a grown man and you're a child. It would be-"

"Innapropriate," Morse finished for him. "I understand."

"Goodbye, Morse," Thursday said. "Perhaps we shall meet again in fifteen years."

"Perhaps," Morse echoed. "Goodbye sir."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six months later Thursday got a letter in the mail.

Joan was busy creating her own fantasy world using her dolls in the living room, while Win dozed quietly on the couch, one hand on her growing belly. From how soft the pregnancy has been, Win's been insisting that the baby was a girl. She has already knitted Sam four pink blankets and a beanie.

Thursday took a seat from across Win, watching her as he opened the envelope. The letter had no return address, but Thursday knew it was from Morse. He recognized the very careful handwriting immediately.

_Dear sir,_

_I was twenty-five when we first met. During a harrowing case of a missing teenage girl, myself and others were brought in from Carshall Newtown to act as extra hands. One night as I was looking over the files, you walked into the room. You asked for my name, then my opinion on the case. While you took my theories with a grain of salt, you did not outright dismiss me nor did you mock me. That is something I will always be grateful for._

_As you can probably guess by now, this will not happen. Enclosed I've listed the names of the missing girl, her attacker, and the names of others and their involvement. I may not been able to prevent Tony Greenberg's death, I will prevent this one. I have faith you will bring justice to this girl._

_I do not know if we'll ever meet again. Already change has come to my life and I determined to see it through differently this time around. If this is truely the last time I'll speak to you, then let me say this:_

_Thank you, sir._

_For trusting me, for guiding me, for having faith in me when no else did. Thank you for inviting me into your home, for the sandwiches, for all those times you asked for my opinion on cases. It's unfair, I know, to speak of events you will never experience, of memories you do not have. Still, I am grateful for the future, for my_ past _you have provided me._

_Sincerely,_

_Endeavour Morse_

There was a second page containing names and locations. Thursday wasn't sure how he was going to hang onto this single piece of paper for the next fifteen years. He gently put it aside.

So. That was it then.

Thursday wished he could write back, to tell Morse he wasn't fired. The board decided to keep Thursday on, providing he didn't pull stunts like he did with the Owens' case. He was going have to walk a very straight, careful line, and there was still a chance he wouldn't become a DI. As long as he could provide for his family, Thursday was content on how this turned out.

Morse was right; it wasn't fair he spoke of memories Thursday never made, experinces he never had. He tried to picture himself walking into the office one night and seeing Morse sitting there, age twenty-five, bent over reading the current case file. The drawing Owens did of Morse was in evidence, never to be touched by Thursday again.

It was a shame Thursday was never going to see that face. He suppose this was for the best, for Morse to take his knowledge and go off in a different direction, to not fall into the same patterns like Owens. He just hoped wherever Morse was, he was happy with his decision.

With a sigh, Thursday folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope. He tucked it into the pocket of his inner shirt, where it would sit safely until Thursday found a better spot to store it.


End file.
